


cut to the bone

by Sonny



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Comment Fic, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Slash, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:45:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonny/pseuds/Sonny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the first time sam sees dean as a man to be desired and not just his bossy, annoying older brother</p>
            </blockquote>





	cut to the bone

**Author's Note:**

> for the Like A Virgin : Feels like the first time... a sam/dean_otp comment fic and art meme - the first time sam sees dean as a man to be desired and not just his bossy, annoying older brother - from ronny_of_yore on LJ

[ ](http://smg.photobucket.com/albums/v163/sonnygrl/BeautifulOtherness/?action=view&current=CutToTheBoneTitleName.jpg)

**Cut to the Bone**

Things are strained between Sam and Dean. Typical sibling spat, yet twenty-year-old Dean's babysitting job is in a forced limbo. For him, this could mean two things... **_Pro:_** whatever he says goes, and Sammy has to obey... **_Con:_** Dean can't have much of a social life on his own with an almost sixteen-year-old little brother tagging along behind him.

Dean really doesn't mind. He's getting that “itch” again, like it's time to leave. Dad should be coming home soon. Dean has had his fill of the college co-ed scene, which is a bit too littered with high school girls for his taste.

The Impala is parked at the curb, Dean had gotten here earlier, before all the other parents. Even before the buses. He has a prime spot and he's making everyone know it as he, at first, leans on the bodywork, on the right front passenger tire's wheel-well. And when the school lets out, he slides his Levi's 501-covered ass across the black-lacquered hood and perches so he can find Sammy's brown mop of hair.

Well, Sammy's not “Sammy” anymore—he's Sam and he's turning sixteen today.

Dean closes his eyes and intakes a breathe to swallow. He forgets that Sam isn't twelve; he has a sixteen year old's body these days, going through the typical sophomore to junior male high schooler's growth spurt. Except Sam's more like a young sapling or a colt—he isn't going to stop growing anytime soon. The straight brown hair that used to frame the sweet round face now looks mahogany—a touch of inky-blacks and fire-reds. Sam in daylight with the sun shining down on him and a light Spring breeze turns quite a few young ladies' heads.

Dean shouldn't have bothered to try making a scene... Sam's got that covered in spades. Dean slides down off the hood, booted feet pounding on the sidewalk as he see what looks to be Sam, with perfectly matted sweat-drenched hair, curls and waves of brown locks whirring around his head. Three girls flank his brother and while they fawn and preen over him, Sam stands there like a newborn foal, flushing like the virgin Dean knows he still is. All three girls seem to be jotting down something in his notebook, and they gladly offer him the sacrifice of one of their friends' backs so he can use it like a desk to write on.

Dean crosses the freshly mowed lawn, with a quick glance back at the Impala and notices that some random kid—in grade school or maybe junior high (who knows nowadays)—is eyeballing his baby. Well, it's still Dad's, but when Dad's not around... the Impala is Dean's responsibility.

With one last glance to Sam and his bevy of stalkers, Dean takes a few steps back to the car. “Hey, kid... take picture, it'll last longer.” He's lame; Dean knows it.

“Is this the Bullet car?” Two smallish, beefy hands are latched around the backpack straps over the boy's shoulders.

“uh, pardon?” Dean turns up one side of his head to hear clearer.

“Bullet. The Movie. Steve McQueen.”

“How do you even—never mind.” Dean wrinkled his brow in curiosity. “What do you wanna know?”

“Is this McQueen's car that he drove?”

“Nah... that was a '68 Ford Mustang...” Dean's beyond impressed because the kid doesn't look like he's into much but fast food and video games, maybe comic books. “... but good eye for American-made muscle cars, though.”

“What is it?”

“—'67 Chevy Impala.”

“Wa's that?” The young face looks beyond bewildered.

“uh... I'm sorry?”

“Wa's an impala? Something cool?”

“Well, yeah. It's really fast and jungle-y... I don't know.” Dean's never had anyone ask him that kind of a question about the car. He feels like he should know more, not just about its mechanics and engine. “It's a pretty cool car. Names don't mean a thing.”

“You get a lot of ass?”

“Excuse me?!” Dean hears perfectly; he's dumbfounded the kid was genuinely straightforward. He didn't even blush once or trip over any words.

“Chicks. Dames. Women. A classic like this... does it make you popular with them?”

“Go on, please...” Dean pats the kid's shoulder, turning him around to send him on his way. He's not ready for a child this age to be asking him sexual questions. Sammy was bad enough. “... or you'll miss your bus.”

In the interim of Dean and the young school kid's conversation, Sam's left the trio of fawning fan-girls to make his way over to his brother. Sam glances from Dean to the young kid—a pudgy, smart kid from the eighth grade—and is confused by the reason they would even be talking to one another. “Sorry... I didn't see you. Been here long?”

“Ah, nah.” Dean's been here for about an hour; the last thing he wants to do is have another fight with Sam. “So whatdaya say we stop off at Burger Hut, pick up two of everything and think about that double feature playing downtown?”

Sam isn't sure why Dean's acting so strange. He's been moping, snappish and fidgety all week. They had a fight the other day. Sam still stung from the rules Dean set and the way he forbid him to actually go out and enjoy his birthday. “There's HBO in the room. Let's just get the food and go back home.”

“Dude... you're only sixteen once.”

“Dean, not now. Okay? I just told the three most popular girls in my class a bold-faced lie.”

“Yeah. I saw them. Cute. A little too blonde and air-headed for me, but whatever floats your boat, Sammy.”

Sam throws his satchel in the back by way of the front seat, then he slides in with ease like he's ridden shotgun plenty of times. He slams the door shut with a force that makes Dean look toward him as he fits behind the wheel.

“You need to cool down, little bro.”

“When's Dad coming back?” Sam slumps in the seat, lifting his knees to brace them against the dashboard. He's almost becoming too big for the interior of the Impala. “Didn't he say around my birthday?”

“No... he didn't really say 'cuz he didn't wanna break any promises he made you.” Dean takes the question like a slight to the past few weeks of him taking care of Sam in Dad's absence. “Look... if you have an issue with me, then spit it out.” He slams his own door, unwilling to drive off when he's pissed.

Sam crosses his arms over his chest, tucking his hands under his armpits so only his thumbs show. “I gave 'em all wrong numbers. They wanted to call to invite me out with them, but I gave them fake numbers.”

“... _sammy_...” Dean shakes his head, knowing Sam knew that wasn't a great way to get the opposite sex's attention.

“Just drop it. I'll be fine. It's not like they really wanted me there anyway.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I was nice to someone they know... well, now I'm, like, this 'pet project'. Like they wanna hang out with me, but point out what cool kids really look or act like. I think they feel sorry for my pathetic state of always looking like I'm homeless.”

“Seriously, dude... real chicks are way-more different than high school girls.”

“They smell nice... an' they feel soft.”

“... jesus christ, you—are fuckin' weird...”

“... _jerk_...”

Dean feels he can almost sigh with relief. Sammy's still there. “... _bitch_...” He elbows Sam and drives away from the curb.

~~&&~~

Sam is half-through his first burger when Dean answers his cell phone. Sitting at the dinette table, with the TV blasting, Sam watches as Dean wanders outdoors, closing the door behind him. Sam isn't worried, he's actually much better than he had been. He's got a cool magazine—Fangora... and he's alternating between reading the articles and watching the television screen. As he takes sips of his soda, Dean walks back in, heading toward the TV set to turn the volume lower.

Sam looks up and catches Dean swiping a hand over his mouth and jaw. “What? What is it? Dean? Is it—was it Dad?... was it about Dad?”

“It's Bobby.” Dean scratched at the back of his head. “Do you think you could watch yourself for a few hours?”

“No, Dean...” Sam whines, throwing his hands down limply on the table surface. “... come on... don't—it's not...” Then he stops being such a baby and he straightens himself with a heavy sigh of acceptance. “... is it bad? Is it about Dad, an' you an' Bobby don't want me to know?”

“It'll just be about 3-4hrs—tops. I don't think I'll be gone all night. And, no.. get it outta your head—it has nuthin' to do with Dad. Bobby's in a snag.”

“He's in jail again, isn't he?”

Dean can't help it... he laughs. “Ah... no, no, no... not that kinda 'snag'. He's fine. Needs my help, that's all.”

“uh, well, yeah... okay. Dad's always tellin' us Bobby's like family. If you gotta go, then go, Dean. I'll be fine.”

Dean hates that he's doing this to Sam. “uhm... okay... you gonna be—I'll take my food with me and eat on the way. You got everything you'll need?” He's already back at the door, reaching up to grab his leather jacket.

“Yeah, yeah... I'll finish my magazine, then probably do some homework. I've got a few reading assignments.”

“I'm sorry, Sammy.”

Dean does genuinely sound apologetic, which eases Sam a tiny bit. “No. No big deal. Tomorrow. Or the next day... whatever.”

“I'm make it up to you... I promise.”

Sam lets the door shut before he actually allows a true emotion to show. He stands there numb and dazed. He feels solitude wash over him and it almost suffocates him. He covers one hand over his eyes and nearly loses composure. Why can't anything ever go right? Why did his life have to suck? He wipes away silent tears from the corners of his eyes and deep breathes to calm down and attempts to enjoy the fact that he's alone. But it's crushing him because that's his one fear... losing everyone he loves over stupid, silly reasons. He wants a normal life for once. He wants a house with his own bedroom... with a huge TV and video games to play. He wants to not keep living out of suitcases and knapsacks.

Sam goes over to turn on the TV to drown out the misery in his head. He meanders back over to the table, sits down, but for some reason he's no longer hungry. He looks at the clock, it's almost seven. The movie on HBO isn't on until nine, so he crawls into the bed that's his and mopes with his head on a pillow. He's out like a light in minutes.

~~&&~~

Sam wakes up to pounding. It takes him awhile to realize it's not on TV, but on the motel room door. Without thinking of his own safety, he climbs off the bed to answer it.

One yank on the doorknob and Sam's face-to-face with a black stretch limo. “uh...” He turns his head gradually to see a middle-aged gentleman dressed in a limo driver's uniform, complete with cap on his head and white gloves on his hands.

“Mr. Samuel Winchester?”

“uh, yes...” Sam wipes at his eyes with the heel of one hand.

“I have a few things for you—with some instructions.”

“uh, okay...”

“May I enter?”

“I guess—what are you—?” Sam moves with the door as he opens it, noting the bouquet of roses—pink—and the long rectangle-shaped box. “Both of those are for me?”

“Yes, Mr. Winchester. You're to read the card and put on what's in the box.”

“Funny... you don't look like a creepy old guy to me.”

“Eh... Bobby Singer can vouch for me. I'm gonna wait for you in the car. Come out when you're ready, then we'll be on our way.”

“To where?”

“It's your birthday, right? On your way to the party?”

“This is really weird. But if you know Bobby then you're okay with me.”

“Good. I always wanted to meet one of the Winchester boys.”

“You know my Dad?”

“You could say I do, a little. He's a good man.”

“Do you know where my Dad is?”

“Nah, kid. I ain't seen him in months. Bobby calls me up a few weeks ago, says he wants to use my limo services. I do the favor 'cuz you come from good respectable folk. You want me to drive around the block and come back?”

“uh, please... I really don't know what's going on.”

“Someone loves you very much. Sixteen roses don't come cheap.”

“yeah, thanks...” Sam had guessed twelve; he was close.

“Don't rush. We got time.” The man steps back outside, softly shutting the motel room door.

Sam can't help himself, he's curious to what's inside the long box. As the lid slides off, he hears the crinkle of tissue papers. The box settles on the bed and he lifts the individual flaps shadowing what's inside. He intakes a breath of shock. He's never had a suit quite this nice and he's not sure if he ever will. Hunting and killing things with John Winchester doesn't allow for much need of formal wear. As he takes out each piece of clothing, he notices he hasn't found a card and no letter of explanation. But the limo driver had told him there was a card, possibly with the roses.

As he turns to lift them, it's clear now that they are pink. Not the typical romantic red for lovers, but he remembers that different colors in roses signify different meanings. He takes a hard swallow, moisture already in his eyes because it's very true—someone _did_ love him... and it's an awesome and overwhelming feeling to sense. Especially when you had lamented earlier how alone you feel when everyone abandons you. He's not sure if this is a typical teenager's life, but he can't see himself hacking it out with any other family. He had wanted something different years ago, but the older he gets and the closer he comes to graduating, he realizes that he could be making a big mistake about college. It's not the fact he wouldn't mind an independence, or a moment or two not to rely on Dad and get the chance to gain faith in himself. It's Dean.

It's the fact that he doesn't want to lose this amazing closeness with Dean. Yet, Sam already feels the tension building toward the day he will graduate and possibly move on to college. Dean knows it, had known it, which is why every disagreement and battle of words they have is like a powder keg of emotions. This last one was awful, words said in haste and old wounds surfacing that should've lain dormant. Sam only has to look at the card once to be reassured he's not alone—he's never been alone. He has someone in his corner at all times. With a gulp to quell his emotional state, Sam quickly picks up the suit and bolts to the bathroom. He'll take the quickest shower in the world and dress faster than he's ever had to before. He doesn't think he has nice loafers or clean shoes to wear with the suit, so he'll look over some of Dad's things.

As he picks up the flowers to set them in the sink, he palms the card as if the two paired words can balm his soul.

 **_FORGIVE ME_ **

That's all it said. That's all that needs to be said.

Sam goes to the window to look out and sees the limo back in the parking lot, running idle. He grabs his key ring and wallet, puts on his wristwatch and, with one last glance in the mirror with his half-dried, combed hair, he gives his reflection a “thumbs up”.

He is out the door and across the parking lot, off to the coolest adventure of mystery and suspense he's ever known absolutely nothing about. His only hope is that Dean has something to do with this. He wants to share his joy and excitement with his brother. Sam knows Dean would've been gone years ago, if he wasn't around.

A lot more people would be around if Sam Winchester didn't exist.

~~&&~~

Sam stops asking questions once they enter the local park. He's seen it in the daytime packed with people: couples, families, men and women with their children. It feels weird to be here at night when it's deserted, no one around except darkness and the sounds of nature.

The part Sam is being driven to is a ridge of crisp green grass, a long drop-off to a cliff that looks over the next town. There's an abundance of fertile trees and flowering shrubs. So it's fairly obvious that a section is out of place when he spots the dressed picnic table and the latticed arch that is decorated to display the words, “Happy Sweet Sixteen, Sammy!” He spots more pink flowers—not roses—and they tangle around the white surface.

Sam's covering his face to stifle wanting to giggle, but he's unable to stop smiling this wide grin. It hurts his face, but it's a good kind of pain. He feels the flush to his skin, knowing he might be blushing. He's oddly nervous and fascinated at the same time. He's been gawking out the door's shaded window, shocked when it opens and he has to come out. That's when he gets the full brunt of the experience. He hears a trio of musical instruments, yet whatever they're playing is haunting and flowing toward him in the swift breeze. He straightens his tie, looking to the limo driver.

“—wow, huh?”

The hard-edge war veteran is trying not to grin either, keeping his face blank of emotions. It's tough because he hadn't expected to pull up and find this— _display_. He's got two granddaughters who reached their sweet sixteens; he's never known a boy to ever wish to mark his age with this type of fanfare. He can tell right away that the kid hadn't expected it, but wasn't finding the sentiment offensive.

“You look great.”

Sam is tugging on his jacket, feeling itchy and warm. “I feel out-of-place. I'm not—I'm really not that special, sir.”

It's the “sir” that almost kills him. Now he knows for certain how respectful he needs to treat John Winchester's son. “I beg to differ.” Once Sam moves out of the way, he closes the door and heads around the limo. “Sorry, but my instructions told me I didn't have to stay. I gotta be somewhere else in another hour.”

“It's okay. I believe my ride is already here.”

“Okay, then. Well, it's been nice ta meet ya, Sam Winchester. And, uh... happy birthday...”

“Thank you, sir.” Sam feels rude, not finding out what the driver's name was. He turns back around to walk toward the table, one hand in his front trouser pocket. As he nears the table, he actually starts to listen to the music being played. He stops and laughs lightly, hand flat to his belly as he recognizes it's symphonic rock or heavy metal. It actually sounds quite good in a classical music style.

Sam's unsure of what to do, so he takes a seat on one side of the picnic table bench to watch the trio of violins finish. He's so caught up in the private concert he doesn't even “see” the maitre'd-looking guy nearing with a wine bottle. It's not until the guy is right up on the table that Sam startles.

“... oh, whoa... oh-kayyy, uh... hi...”

“Hello, sir. Would you like for me to pour you a glass?” He offers out the bottle to show Sam that it's simply fancy sparkling cider.

Awesome! Sam's not a drinker, so this is perfect. An occasional beer—half of one, usually Dean's—is about all he can stand. While the cider is poured in a champagne glass, Sam hears the live music coming to an end and now he's anxious to see what'll come next. “... thank you...”

“You're welcome, sir. Do you need anything else?”

“Uhm, I don't, but... well, I'm not even—” Sam doesn't notice out of the corner of his eye that the trio is now moving to the archway; they flank one side and begin to play another hard rock tune. It's not Dean's signature sound, but it'll do—strangely. The matire'd wanders off to stand at the other end of the picnic table. Sam waits for Dean's big entrance... and nothing—just the music, the breeze and the rustle of the spring foliage.

It was all part of Dean's big plan. Sam's so easily distracted. Get him to focus elsewhere, enrapture him and he's pretty gullible—simply yours. So it's Dean walking down a gravel path, dressed to the nines in his own suit—he would've gone with the tuxedo but he'd already gone far enough with everything else. He can tell it's getting to Sam; he's biting a thumbnail and his knee is bouncing up-n-down with nerves.

Dean approaches Sam on his right, sending a hand out, palm up. He moves closer to brush the tense biceps under the suit sleeve. “Sammy... gimme your hand...”

Sam turns his head away, secretly wiping at his eyes. He gives off a light laugh at himself. “... _dean_...” He shakes his head at how awful to Dean he's been.

Dean is slightly worried that Sam won't look at him or take his hand, so he clamps that hand around the shoulder joint. “Don't. Don't say anything right now. Let me do all the talking.”

At that moment, Sam is off the bench and flying into Dean's arms, giving him the fiercest, hardest hug he can. “... _'msorry—'msorry—'msorry_...”

It's strange to know exactly what a person feels by a simple embrace. Sam's the best at them, his heart on his sleeve and emotions draped over him like a layer of skin. Dean senses the forgiveness, the apology, the grief, the hurt and even the immense shock of unconditional love. Sam feels... _good_ in his arms: strong, sturdy and lethal with his heart. Even as Sam matures and grows, he still fits, just a bit differently each time. Dean used to carry Sam in his arms, now Sam can lift Dean in his own, right off the ground. Dean cups a hand hard about Sam's nape. “It's not your 'sorry' to give. I've been...”

Sam pulls away to listen intently because he knows this'll be profound and heavy. Dean isn't much of a talker about feelings, especially hurt ones. Dean's hand remains on Sam's nape as he attempts to gather words. This allows Sam to look at Dean, dressed in an equally expensive and fine-cut suit. He looks... edible and smells sensational. Dean even shaved for him; there's a small bleeder—dry now—on the side of the neck. There is such a power surge of love in Sam's whole body right now, he actually can't breathe, can't say a word.

“I've been unfair, is what I've been. I'm piling things on you that you don't deserve and... I may have become a bit... unreasonable when it comes to taking care of you...”

“No, Dean...” This isn't Sam's wish for his birthday—a groveling older brother.

“Yes, Sammy... I know it's like night-and-day with me. Dad's here, I stick up for you. I don't want you to choose THIS as your only option in life. I made MY choice, I'll live with it. But when it's just us, alone... and I realize what I might lose...” At that point, Dean chokes, drops his hand and averts his head. “... if I lose you, I lose everything that I am.” He places a balled fist over his mouth, trying to contain and control his emotions.

Sam's beyond humbled; he's near tears, bowing chin to chest.

“This whole thing...” Dean sweeps his hand around them. “... all this foolish grand-scope of making this the sweetest birthday you've ever had... it reminds me of one thing, and it grounds me, right here—with you.” He points down to the ground beneath their shiny black loafers. “So forget about what happened to Mom, forget about the shitty ways Dad tries to survive and take care of us... what matters is us—brothers... what matters is that we don't let them win and we protect each other.”

Sam catches the stretch of silence. “Can I say something?”

“uh, yeah... go ahead...”

“I don't have to go. Who says I'll get in and find a scholarship to even pay for all four years or partial. I won't go if it hurts us.”

“You'll go because that's what we do. You live your life away from this fucked-up shit and I make sure this world around you is safe from the next Big Baddie.'

“I don't want you out there alone.”

“Eh, I got Dad. Besides, even when I'm alone, I never really am. You helped teach me that.”

“You really don't have to do this. I would've sufficed with the burgers an' a cable movie on TV.”

“Yes, I did have to do this, because you're my brother... you're only sixteen once and... well, I think I've raised you well enough this far. It's kind of a dual celebration.”

“We didn't do anything on your birthday.”

“We were on the road when I turned sixteen. I was happy—content.”

Sam reaches for Dean's hand, taking it between his two huge palms. “Tell me to stay and I'll stop looking at schools.

“I _can't_ do that to you. I _won't_ do that to you.”

“Okay... come with me then. We can... find a small place off-campus and you—”

“I— _what_? Work a 9-to-5 job for crappy pay? It's best if I stay, help Dad not get dead.” Dean clears his throat because it's getting rather intimate suddenly. “Come on. Let's eat. Then we'll have dessert and open presents.”

Sam's flabbergasted. Dean got him _presents_?

~~&&~~

The food had been delicious. Dean had gotten all of Sam's favorites on the menu. The trio of violins had only been booked for another half-hour, once they began eating, so they were gone. As the dessert had been served—a big chocolate sprinkle cupcake for Sam and a slice of homemade crumble apple pie for Dean—the maitre'd packed up his things and had left. Every single one of them having owed John Winchester or Bobby Singer a favor. Sam is still astounded by the amount of debts repaid with such affection and respect. A hunter's life really doesn't seem all that bad from this angle.

“So Sammy... what'd you wish for?” Dean gulps down the taste of cider, washing away the final piece of his pie.

“If I tell you, it won't come true.”

“Fine. I know ways of making you cave. Only a matter of time.”

Sam caresses the leather-bound journal—just like Dad's—Dean bought him. Tucked inside the blank pages is a letter arranging for Sam Winchester to make a formal visit to a college of his choice. The list is astounding, all accredited and Ivy League. Now it's official... Dean has done too much. So much that Sam, in the small amount of time this birthday has taken place in, sees a different side to his bossy, annoying older brother that makes him take notice. There was a human-side—flaws and all. There was a manly and a maternal side, both as extraordinarily loving and affectionate even though Dean claims he wasn't. There was heart and integrity... and there was a joy that kept trying to escape that Dean tried not to let out too much. Tragedy has taught them both that harsh lesson... to always prepare for the worst.

Sam munches on the crumbs of his cupcake birthday cake and swallows hard. “I gave my wish to you.”

“huh?”

“I don't need my wish. I have everything I want. So... I gave my wish to you.”

“Is it still bad luck to tell me?”

“Really? You're gonna care 'bout silly superstitions—now?!”

“Maybe if you whispered it into my ear it would—”

“Heaven.” Sam looks down then back up to catch wide green eyes, pupils dilating in wild fascination. “I wished you Heaven.”

Dean's stunned, forced into silence. He doesn't know how to respond to a self-sacrifice of that nature.

“Take it however you think it means. But I want you to be at peace... an' happy. Even without me.”

Dean reaches across the table to snatch Sam's wrist. “... _jesus_...”

“... yeah, so...” Sam blows it off like it wasn't a huge deal.

“... _sam_...”

“C'mon, we should go. I know we're not supposed to be here too late into the night. We should head on back.” Sam's looking around for the Impala, holding the blank journal to his chest.

Dean gets up to walk around the table, picking up the garbage and throwing it all away in the metal bin. “I'm already there, by the way.”

“What?”

“Or at least I'm half-way there.”

“huh?” Sam is a bit confused, but not when Dean's arms surround his waist and one arm hugs him tight to his brother's chest. A hand comes out and up to cup his cheek, thumb pad playing over his open lips. Green eyes are on Sam's mouth as Sam sticks his tongue out to lick the skin wet. “Dean...”

There's a _*_ _whoosh*_ of sound—maybe a tornado is ripping through the park, but the moment Dean kisses Sam everything comes into sharp focus.. arrows pointing directly to this _exact_ moment. Sam is able to figure out why his emotions have been so moody lately

He's in love with his brother. He's in love with Dean. And he worried that Dean didn't love him the same way back. Here's the proof he _did_ —he _does_. He possibly _always has_. Sam's hand comes out to latch onto one lapel of Dean's suit jacket, then slides inside to shape the ribcage, landing at the waist. He holds Dean closer, watching him draw back with eyes closed and waiting for an explosion of anger.

None comes.

Sam's kissed girls before, but never this deeply. This is his first genuine “kiss”... and he's glad it's Dean. He leans his brow on Dean's, brushing his nose and cheek along the side of Dean's head. He wants another kiss, soon, but Dean isn't going to allow it—at least not in public.

Sam can wait.

~~&&~~

They climb into the Impala, both on their respective sides of the bench-seat. But they both feel a bit overdressed for their drive.

Dean takes off his suit jacket and tie, undoing the first three buttons of his shirt. Sam takes off the jacket, folding it nicely to stack on top of his new journal. He doesn't take off the tie, just loosens the loop around his neck and undoes a single button at his collar. When he's seated on the seat, he reaches over the backseat to place his present, and the jacket, in a safe place. It's when he's reaching over that he notices a familiar bag stuffed in the floorboard behind Dean's seat.

“Dude...” Sam smirks, feeling his heart skip a beat, then speed up.

Dean settles behind the wheel as he shuts the door and learns that Sam has found his secret hiding place. “Yeah... can you believe that we still have some of them leftover?”

“I thought we set all of them off last time.” Sam is adjusting himself to settle on the hump in the center. He doesn't want to invade Dean's space. He's still small enough to fold himself on the bench-seat, like he used to when he was younger, falling asleep in the backseat of the Impala. Sam stretches his arm out, laying his head on the biceps. “Let's go to Bobby's.”

“Wha—? Sammy, you got school tomorrow. It's, like, a 2hr drive.”

“I wanna light them.”

“The fireworks?”

“uh, duh...” Sam shoves Dean's shoulder nearby. “... what else would I want to light, dummy?”

“Sam...”

“It's my birthday. I gave up my wish for you. Let me have this one... puh-leeze...”

Dammit! Dean knows he should never look directly into Sam's face, see those sad puppy dog brown eyes of doom, pleading at him. “... oh-kay...” He can't believe how boisterous Sam becomes—the fact that he can swiftly fly over the front seat into the back, then sit down behind Dean to dig through the bag in seconds flat... makes Dean want to cry. He knows just the place to take Sam.

They were on the highway, going around 55-60 mph and Dean can only see Sam's brown head bent over to investigate which fireworks were left. He keeps trying to look over his shoulder.

“Sam...”

“... yo?!”

“I got a place we can go. Where we can set these off.”

“Cool.” Sam places his left hand on the front seat and while the car is in motion, he climbs back over to plop down next to Dean. This time he's closer to his brother's side than was acceptable, almost in his lap.

Dean doesn't know what to do: take Sam's hand, wrap an arm around those hunched shoulders or just let the kid decide

on his own. He only knows he doesn't want to go back to the motel room and have this night end abruptly. The silence passes long enough for Sam to feel compelled to take action if Dean isn't going to. He slumps down in the seat, sliding his arm under Dean's right and tucking his fingers between Dean's. He turns his head to lean on Dean's shoulder and shuts his eyes. Perfection. Sam feels the return squeeze of reassurance from Dean, then the thumb scraping over his skin to a hidden rhythm. He was soothed by the warmth and hold, the idea that he has a bright future to look forward to.

Dean feels Sam go slack against his body, so he releases the hand, letting the arm rest along his thigh. Then he sets his right arm behind Sam to keep him snug nearby. Driving one-handed, on the deserted highway, he decides to pick another stop further down so he can savor this moment with Sam. This is precious time with his brother he can't afford to lose, no one and nothing would take that from him.

~~&&~~

Meanwhile, back at the Winchester's motel room, the lone, weary figure fits the key in the lock and opens the door. Setting his gun bag, knapsack and duffel down, John Winchester sighs a heavy patch of air as his eyes take on the darkened room.

The Impala wasn't outside, so he knows Dean and Sam aren't around. That's good. He doesn't feel much like seeing the boys or being around other people. He paces to the fridge and looks inside to pull out a fresh can of beer. He opens it and wander over to the couch in front of the TV set, turning on the tube and stretching out over the cushions. The beds are for the boys; John only needs a pillow and blanket. Once he plops down with a beer and remote in hand, he pulls out his cell phone and pushes one digit to dial a familiar number. He has some good news—bad, if the boys had actually liked this town. He'll be moving the family again, probably one last time before Sammy graduates from high school... waiting for the moment his youngest contemplates leaving the nest.

“Hey, yeah... it's me... I'm here... I'll probably be out once you two get back. I'll get up early and go see Bobby so—you an' Sammy can get the car packed and the room all spiffy. I'll leave you the rent money for the week. You boys can drive up and meet me at Bobby's. Got that?”

~~&&~~

Dean is beyond stunned, looking down at Sam who is now resting on his lap in peaceful slumber. “uh, yeah... got it. We'll be there soon. Just... gotta take care of a few things.”

“Wha—?” And in that instant, John realizes what day it is. “awww, shit... _sammy_...”

“Don't worry. I got him something from both of us. He knows how busy you get.”

“Tell him I'll make it up to him. He and I... we'll—well, we'll see what's in the next town an' go from there.”

“All right... sleep well.”

“Oh, I will... how's the car doin'?”

Dean chokes because Dad is always on him about the Impala. “Good. I just got her serviced. Two new tires. She'll be good for a few more thousand miles.”

“Great. Good... I'm 'bout ready to crash, so, uh... I'll let you go. Get here safe, son.”

“I will, Dad. I will.” Dean hangs up and the phone is tightly gripped in his hand as he feels like he could almost crush it with one more squeeze. He doesn't care about the phone, throwing it down to bounce behind Sam as he curls on the leftover cushions. Dean drapes his arm over Sam's arm and almost startles when he feels Sam take his hand, holding his fingers.

“I haven't said 'thanks' for my awesomely-cool birthday, so— _thanks_.”

“Eh, no need. It was totally worth it.”

“I had no idea you were that— _clever_... all that mystery of needing to go to Bobby's and all the secretive shit. It was like you had planned this weeks ago.”

“Months.”

“Whatever. Still...” Sam rolls onto his back, slightly, to look up at Dean. “... admit it... you've tried to deny the feeling for too long, but—you do love me...”

Dean attempts to alternate with eyes on the road and eyes on Sam, glancing up at him with the blissful smirk on his face. “Of course I do. We're brothers... we're family...”

“Yes, but... you REALLY love me. How else can you explain everything that happened tonight?”

“I care, Sam... a lot.”

“mmm... it's okay. Lie to yourself, if it makes you cope better.”

“Don't act so smug.”

“Smug? Jesus, Dean... I'm grateful I have someone who loves me as much as you do. Semantics don't mean a thing to me. It feels good to know you are, though.”

“Are— _what_?”

“Loved.”

“mmm-hmm...”

“And... I do.”

“Do— _what_?”

“Love you. The same, though I...”

“uh-huh...?”

“I don't know... am I supposed to feel this good—this happy—when I'm with you? Like... the fact that no one of the opposite sex makes me feel this way?”

“Sam...”

“I know. I'm weird. I made this weird, huh? Me and my big mouth... going on about feelings. What kind of a Winchester am I?”

“You—are the best one I know.”

“Really?”

“Yes... no... well, maybe...” Dean feels the punch to his thigh as Sam sits upright. “ow-ch!” He makes sure to try to pinch or tickle as Sam starts to move away to settle in the passenger seat. Dean senses the chill of the silence, Sam going unusually quiet and watching him relax on the other side of the long bench-seat, too far away. “I do... Sam...” He sees a dark eyebrow rise. “I do—love you... I don't... I never really wanted to define it or put it in a box to mark it under a category. But it's—different... it feels...”

“.. real?”

“That, but it feels like the only way we get out of the hell, you know. Look at Dad... see what he gives up for this quest for Mom's death. You don't think that's us in ten years?”

“So is it like we're stuck with each other?”

“There's no one I'd rather be stuck to.”

“... shut up...”

“Hey, I'm being honest. I like you. I like hanging out with you. Are you a pain in my ass? Of course you are... and will always be. But cut to the bone... I do love you—probably to an unhealthy degree.”

“Really? You think it's unhealthy for us to feel this way about one another?”

“If I use that love to tie you to me and I'm toxic to your well-being—like I don't allow you to grow and learn beyond me, then, yeah... it's a little unhealthy.”

“But... you're letting me check out colleges, so...?”

“—yeah, so...”

Dean shares a deep and intense side-long glance with Sam. Sam nods his head, bowing his chin to his chest as he can't look into those mesmerizing green eyes in the darkness of the cab of the Impala, or he'll start to sob...

“... _damn_...”

Dean sends his arm across the seat, palm up. He's pleased when Sam snatches the hand and, literally, clings like he's drowning. “We'll be okay, Sammy. You and me... we will _always_ be okay...”

“Please... don't make me promises.” Sam's been made too many promises by Dad that have fallen through.

“I won't. How 'bout a 'vow', huh? Don't think you've done one of those before.”

“A vow? Is that stronger? Like a marriage vow or something?”

“uh, yeah... I suppose... if you wanted to see it that way.”

“I do. I think I'll take your 'vow'.”

“Good.”

“Can I make one too?”

“If you want.”

“I do... I really, really do.”

 **~*~the end**


End file.
